


paper hearts

by superfluouskeys



Series: 9 Days of Fic for 900 Followers [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Bittersweet Ending, Blackwatch Era, Body Image, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Insecurity, Jealousy, Moicy, but doesn't focus on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superfluouskeys/pseuds/superfluouskeys
Summary: Overwatch doesn't send people here.  They want her ideas, her research, her inventions, but they don't want the consequences.  It has been made abundantly clear to Moira that she has only been allowed to keep her position on the word of Reyes, and that if anything comes up or comes out, Moira does not exist.Overwatch doesn't send people here, and yet here is Mercy.





	paper hearts

**Author's Note:**

> artwaffle142 asked for Moicy jealousy/love-triangle-esque angst, and I dunno what this turned into honestly? I hope you like it??? I know the lore is vague and sketchy at best but just to be clear I don't know a ton of it and might be taking considerable liberties.

"Doctor?"

"Hm."

"I said, wouldn't you like to come inside?"

Moira opens her eyes.  "Why?"

"It's raining."

Moira looks up.  There's an umbrella over her head and her shoes are wet.  "So it is."

The Overwatch operative with the blonde hair and the piercing eyes—codename Mercy—takes her by her bad arm, and Moira narrowly avoids flinching.

"Lost in thought?" she says, with a sweetness that turns Moira's stomach.

Moira frowns, but out of pride she doesn't reclaim her arm.  "A few ideas," she says, "to help the subject adjust to his condition.  Implants would be best.  I could also fashion a series of injections.  Your call."

Overwatch doesn't send people here.  They want her ideas, her research, her inventions, but they don't want the consequences.  It has been made abundantly clear to Moira that she has only been allowed to keep her position on the word of Reyes, and that if anything comes up or comes out, Moira does not exist.

"My call?"

"He is your project."

Overwatch doesn't send people here, and yet here is Mercy.  She stumbled upon a member of the Shimada ninja clan and rescued him from what looked to be well past the brink of death, but Overwatch doesn't just want him alive, they want him better than before, and so they sent him and his bleeding heart nursemaid here.

Mercy relinquishes Moira's arm and closes the umbrella.  "I'm afraid I'm not made for these top secret operations," she says.

"How do you mean?"

Mercy meets her eyes, and Moira feels her stomach twist, apropos of nothing.

"I was warned to be wary of your methods," she says.

Moira raises her eyes to the ceiling.  "So they've sent you all the way out here and told you not to allow me to work."  She sighs pointedly.  "How predictable."

"I'm sorry," says Mercy.  "I don't like keeping such secrets.  What would you recommend, Doctor?  Implants, you said?"

Moira considers Mercy with her full attention for the first time.  She nods slowly.

Mercy frowns.  "They won't...hurt him?"

Moira quirks one eyebrow.  "No more than rebuilding him from scratch," she replies drily, then turns on her heel to ready the implants she has in mind.  "You're an odd sort for a military doctor."

To Moira's surprise, Mercy responds with a little laugh.  "I like to think that's to my credit."

—-

"Is O'Deorain a code name?"

"Does it sound like one?"  Moira's attention is focused upon the subject's vitals.  The implants are working as expected.  His system is stabilizing.

"Don't you have one?"

Moira swipes to the next screen.  "I've never needed one."  She can feel rather than see Mercy approaching.  She's unnervingly light on her feet.

"And your first name?"

Moira looks up.  "A name for a name."

Mercy smiles, and Moira gets the sense that she's been played.  "Angela."

How fitting.

Angela inclines her head almost playfully.  "You promised."

The corner of Moira's lips quirks upward dangerously.  "Did I?"

"I suppose I see why you don't need a code name."  Angela is taken aback, but not offended, and so Moira returns her attention to the screen.  Occasional spikes in the heart rate, and a slight climb in body temperature to keep an eye on.  Of course her success was inevitable, yet she gleans particular pleasure out of this one.  Vindication, perhaps, for Overwatch's self-important dismissal of her 'controversial' methods.

"It's really quite amazing."  Or perhaps there's another reason.  "I did everything I could for him, but what you're doing, it's...it's like you're changing the way his body reacts to the cybernetics at the cellular level."

Moira swipes to the next screen, possibly for Angela's benefit.  "That is exactly what I'm doing."

—-

When the subject regains sentience, he becomes insufferable, and this is where Angela's expertise shines.  She introduces herself as Dr. Ziegler, and proceeds to ask the subject a slew of inane questions, most of which could have been covered by "how are you feeling" and "where is the pain worst."

Moira storms out of and back into the room every few minutes, alternatively contented to brood and compelled to tend to some other projects she's been neglecting.  She'd have liked to complain that she was right on the verge of a breakthrough on her weaponized technology for transferring healing energy, but in truth she'd been stuck for nearly a week when Dr. Ziegler had arrived, and has no interest in drawing attention to the fact.

Half consciously, she cradles the arm she's injured irreparably against her chest as she paces her lab.  She considers the condition of Lacroix, the modifications that rendered her so effective, the blue tint to her skin and how it compares to the skin around the scars Moira inflicted upon herself.  She considers the unexpected self-healing side effects of the modifications to Reyes. 

Against her better judgement, she returns to the threshold of the subject's room to consider Dr. Ziegler, and wonders how any doctor, no matter how brilliant, could have saved a man in Shimada's condition.

Moira curls the fingers of her scarred hand and stares at them.  She considers combat medics, and how Overwatch seems increasingly to pull off feats that ought to be suicide missions.

She turns on her heel.

"I'm a monster," she hears the subject rasp.

Dr. Ziegler comes into view, holding her hands on either side of his face.  "That isn't true at all," she says sweetly.

Moira feels her stomach twist.  "I haven't got all day, _Dr. Ziegler_."  She stresses the name to indicate she's overheard it.  There's some small victory in the knowledge, and considerable relief in having a formal title by which to distance herself.

Dr. Ziegler looks up, wide-eyed.  "Of course," she says, and retrieves her clipboard.  She looks over her shoulder.  "I'll be back later and we can talk some more, all right?"  She smiles warmly.  "Try to get some rest."

The subject doesn't respond.  He is looking at his hands, turning them over and over, examining the scarring, the way his arms morph from human to machine, and he is crying.  Moira curls her lip in disgust.

When they're out of earshot, Dr. Ziegler says, "He's had a terrible shock."

Moira rends the clipboard from her hands.  "And?"

Dr. Ziegler falters.  "And..." she shakes her head.  "And he doesn't seem to be experiencing any phantom limb pains.  The expected soreness where the synthetic material is still merging with the organic tissue, but it's.."  She looks up, and there's that same wide-eyed wonder from before.  "It's truly incredible what you've done, Dr. O'Deorain.  His pain is...I think the worst of it is in his heart."  She touches her own chest in a gesture of sympathy.

Moira nods slowly.  "Good."  She turns her attention to the clipboard and makes to leave the room.  Dr. Ziegler catches her by her bad arm, and Moira cannot hide her wince quickly enough.

"I'm sorry!" Dr. Ziegler cries.

Moira whirls around to face her, equal parts enraged and embarrassed. 

"I'm so sorry, I should have realized!"  Dr. Ziegler is holding up her hands in surrender.

Moira stares, unblinking, and inhales slowly.  "I'd rather you hadn't," she replies quietly, and turns to leave without further interference.

—-

She holds his arm while they walk even though it's entirely unnecessary.  Moira watches them from the doorway and fumes silently.

Reyes will be here in a few days to brief him on Overwatch's plans for him.  Moira isn't meant to know, but it seems fairly obvious they mean to use him as a weapon against his family.  A simple task, from what she overhears: the subject was very nearly killed by his own brother.

They stroll past the door where Moira has been standing overlong, and Dr. Ziegler looks up at her as they pass.  Moira ignores her.  Her attention is drawn to Dr. Ziegler's hands on the subject's arm.  Once Dr. Ziegler has given up looking at her, Moira examines her own arm.

She thinks of how she flinched away from Dr. Ziegler's touch and loathes herself for her weakness.  It isn't the pain that troubles her—pain is such a commonplace thing.  What she feels is hardly even describable as pain.  What she feels is a nothingness, a void, or a black hole, not merely empty but pulling with a force of its own. 

She hadn't quite noticed before—people aren't usually foolish enough to touch Moira at all, particularly her right arm—but when Dr. Ziegler touched her, she could sense, palpably, her life energy.  She got the sense that if she wished it, she could grasp onto that life energy and...pull.

Across the yard, Dr. Ziegler laughs.  Moira curls her fingers into a fist.  She turns on her heel with a sneer.

—-

"You still haven't told me your first name."

"Moira."  She is too preoccupied to play games, but perhaps her inattention is deliberate.

Dr. Ziegler takes it as an invitation nonetheless.  "Do you have any siblings?"

Moira grabs a pencil and scribbles a few notes.  "I had an older brother and a younger sister.  Neither survived to adulthood.  A uniquely disastrous combination of—"  The lead breaks.  "—rare genetic conditions."

Before she even has time to curse, Dr. Ziegler is offering her another pencil.  "I'm sorry for your loss," she says.

Moira meets her eyes uncertainly as she takes the pencil.  "Thank you," she says, and isn't certain for which.

"And you?" Dr. Ziegler dares.

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" Moira replies.

"If I had to guess," says Dr. Ziegler slowly, cautiously, "I would say that was by your own design."

Moira returns to her interrupted notes, then to the machine she's cobbling together for testing.  "And you?"

"No family at all, I'm afraid," she says, to Moira's surprise.  "I lost my parents to the war when I was very young."

Moira adjusts a tube, turns the last screw into place.  "I'm sorry."

"I hardly remember it," says Dr. Ziegler.  "Or them."  She laughs suddenly, sadly.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Moira frowns suddenly.  "The patient.  His brother nearly killed him."

Dr. Ziegler is silent for a moment.  "Yes, I suppose that's right, isn't it?"

Another long silence.  Moira's bad arm is starting to ache.  She switches hands.

"Do you know what they intend for him?" Dr. Ziegler wonders, quietly, as though anyone is around to hear them.

"I have a guess," Moira replies.

"I just wish I could—what is it you're working on, anyway?"

Moira looks up.  "I'm glad you asked.  Actually, I've been meaning to request your assistance."

Dr. Ziegler's lips twitch into a surprised little smile, and Moira's heart twists unhelpfully.

—-

"Hey."

Moira's attention to her work is undisturbed.  "I wondered when you'd show."

"How's Shimada?"

Moira shrugs.  "Irritating."

Reyes laughs.  "His condition, I mean."

Moira rolls her eyes, adjusts the positioning of a tube.  "Excellent, of course."

"No setbacks?"

"None."

"Any trouble with Mercy?"

This is enough to catch Moira's attention.  "Were you expecting trouble?"

"They tell me she has some pretty strong ideas," Reyes shrugs.  "The kind of ideas that...get in the way."

Moira nods slowly.  "I can see that.  But no, she took my suggestions regarding her patient without resistance."

Reyes raises his eyebrows.  "Huh.  Well, good, then.  You know where I can find him?"

Moira returns to her work.  "Out walking in the yard, I expect."

Reyes pats her firmly on her left shoulder as he exits.  Moira thinks, not for the first time, what good fortune it was to have made his acquaintance.

She tightens the final tube into place and tries the device on for size.  The fit is right.  It's cumbersome, particularly on the right shoulder—she makes a note to look into that—but Moira isn't a field agent, and it's nothing that should hinder a skilled combatant.  She flexes her wrists experimentally, nods slowly to herself, and commences the testing.

A simple concept: _one hand gives..._

She flexes her left wrist and releases a biotic healing stream, technology based heavily upon her chat with Dr. Ziegler.

_And the other..._

She curls the fingers of her right hand, closes her eyes and latches onto the feeling of life energy in the air.  She _pulls._

—-

Momentarily satisfied by her success, Moira calls it an early night.  She removes her lab gear for what feels like the first time in a week, and makes to retire to her quarters for a drink.

"I never thought I'd see you off the job," says Dr. Ziegler from behind her.

 _You move too quietly_ , Moira almost tells her, but wouldn't give her the satisfaction.  "I've had a good day," she says instead.  "Worthy of celebration."

"That's wonderful news!" says Dr. Ziegler, falling into step with her.  "I hope my research helped you?"

"It proved invaluable, actually," says Moira.  "Thank you."

"I'm glad of it," says Dr. Ziegler, with that sweetness that turns Moira's stomach.

"It's potent stuff," Moira continues, somewhat awkwardly, since it seems Dr. Ziegler intends to continue walking with her.  "I see now how you managed to save your patient.  Not that I doubted your expertise, of course, but his condition would have seemed well beyond help for most."

In her periphery, she sees Dr. Ziegler positively beaming up at her.  It's uniquely disconcerting.

"Why, Dr. O'Deorain, that sounded remarkably like a compliment!"

Moira awards her a sidelong glance and a quirked brow.  "Are you so starved for praise?"

Dr. Ziegler's smile only widens.  "No, it's just that I thought you didn't like me."

Moira frowns and averts her eyes, unsure of how to respond.

"Are you going to be celebrating alone?" Dr. Ziegler wonders, with the kind of suddenness that indicates impulse, and the kind of impulse that indicates she remains uncertain on where she stands with Moira.

Moira looks down at her.  "Would you like to join me?"

Dr. Ziegler smiles hesitantly.  "Only if you want me to."

Moira's brow furrows slightly, and before she can think better of it, she offers Dr. Ziegler her arm.

Dr. Ziegler's smile widens, and she takes Moira's arm happily.  The sensation sends an unexpected shiver through Moira, unwelcome but not unpleasant.  Moira's frown deepens in response and they continue their walk in silence.

"Did you learn anything interesting in your daily stroll?" Moira wonders, not without vitriol, as she surveys the limited contents of her liquour cabinet.

Dr. Ziegler hums thoughtfully.  "I don't like what Overwatch is doing," she says at last.  "Genji is a man at war with himself, and they are using his emotional turmoil to achieve their own ends."

 _Are you on a first-name basis with all your projects?_ Moira narrowly avoids snapping.  "When has Overwatch done anything else?" she scoffs instead as she decides upon a bottle of whiskey.  She offers it to Dr. Ziegler.  "Is this all right?"

"Yes, that's wonderful, thank you," says Dr. Ziegler while she thinks.  "I don't agree with much of what Overwatch does, but I believe in what it stands for.  And most of its agents are...they mean well, if nothing else.  I don't like being involved with something so underhanded."

Moira lets out a small breath of amusement.  "Were you not skeptical when they sent you all the way out here?  This place practically screams 'underhanded.'"

Dr. Ziegler lowers her gaze.  "I suppose I didn't think too much about it at the time.  They told me you could help.  That was all that mattered to me."

Moira offers Dr. Ziegler a glass.  "Are you always so personally involved with your patients?"

Dr. Ziegler's mouth twists into a mirthless smile.  "Perhaps."  She raises her glass in a toast.  "You're not the first to notice."

Moira considers her for a moment.  "I expect it's to your credit as much as to your detriment," she says at last.

To her surprise, Dr. Ziegler's smile turns genuine.  "You're full of high praise this evening."

Moira feels the beginnings of a smile upon her own features, and she raises her glass to meet Dr. Ziegler's.  "To a productive day," she says.

Dr. Ziegler laughs, so brightly it wrinkles her nose, before she takes a sip.  Moira finds herself captivated by the sight.

They discuss work for the duration of the first drink.  Halfway through the second, Moira tells her about the paper that very nearly ruined her career.  It's common knowledge, after all, easy to look up now that Dr. Ziegler knows her full name, yet talking about it feels strangely personal.  She realizes she's never talked about it at all.  Not like this.

"And no one could recreate your experiments?" Dr. Ziegler is sitting unnervingly close.  Their knees are touching.  Moira both wants and desperately does not want to move away.

Moira gestures vaguely.  "No one was willing to, more like."

"They were dangerous?" Dr. Ziegler leans in, not accusatory, but curious.

Moira takes a long, thoughtful sip before she responds.  "My parents were brilliant, well-connected, well-liked people, yet they could do nothing to save my siblings," she says.  "By all accounts I ought to have died before I reached the age of twenty.  What did I care for risks?"

Dr. Ziegler's hand on her knee very nearly causes Moira to flinch, but the lag from the alcohol saves her from such an embarrassment.  She meets Dr. Ziegler's wide, shining eyes with a mask of cool detachment.

"That must have been a very frightening time for you," says Dr. Ziegler, so softly it almost aches.  "I think you were brave to do what you had to."

Moira lets out a little breath of mirthless laughter.  "Brave?" she shakes her head.  "Or desperate?"

Dr. Ziegler squeezes Moira's knee, and Moira's mind goes momentarily blank.  "A lot of people panic when they're afraid.  They don't know what to do.  You did something, Moira."

Moira.  Not Dr. O'Deorain.  Moira's right hand twitches impulsively, but she stays it.  She rests the left one atop Dr. Ziegler's hand, instead.  "Thank you," she says, frowns thoughtfully, amends, "Angela."

They sit together unmoving for a moment before Angela turns her attention to Moira's hand.  She giggles suddenly.

Moira withdraws her hand as though burned.  "What?"

"I confess I've been wondering, isn't it cumbersome, working with such long fingernails?"

Moira quirks one brow.  "A side effect of the cellular regeneration technology," she shrugs.  "Hair and nails grow like mad.  The hair bothers me, so I cut it, but as for the nails..." she stands and collects their glasses with deliberate casualness. "Well, I can think of only one reason to cut them, and that doesn't seem terribly likely in my present circumstances."

"What—oh.  Oh!"  Angela averts her gaze abruptly, and she's hiding a very charming sort of smile.

Moira isn't certain what reaction she was aiming for—perhaps it had been as any other experiment to her, and she'd hoped for any reaction at all—but this is nonetheless unexpected.

"Well," Angela dares a glance up at Moira, "you never know, do you?  Perhaps an opportunity could...surprise you."

Moira considers her through narrowed eyes for a moment too long, captivated by the way she looks, by the strangeness of her reaction.  Then she catches herself, averts her gaze and returns her attention to her drink.  It was a stupid joke—at worst it would have rendered Angela uncomfortable or angry—and Moira isn't certain why she felt compelled to take the risk at all.

Then again, why has she ever?  By all accounts she ought to have died before she reached the age of twenty.  What does she care for risks?

—-

The next morning, Moira finds a pair of nail clippers she has never seen before sitting on her desk.  Comfortable in her utter aloneness, she laughs without reservation.

—-

Moira doesn't feel the compulsion to fume in the doorway to the yard while Angela walks with her patient today.  Reyes joins her for lunch, instead.

"And you're sure it works?"

Moira levels him with a look of utter contempt.

Reyes holds up his hands in mock-defeat.  "I mean, would you trust it in the field?"

Moira leans back in her chair, steeples her fingers thoughtfully.  "I'd rather run more tests, but yes, if it were necessary."

Reyes is silent a moment too long.

"What?"

"It might be necessary."

She understands before she can fully articulate what she knows Reyes will say.  "I'm not a field agent," she says instead, and it's the closest she's felt to panic in years.

"Neither was Mercy," Reyes shrugs.  "We all do what we have to."

Moira sighs heavily.

"It has to happen quickly.  You, me, Mercy, and Shimada.  I wanted one more but we can't get in touch with him."

"What can Shimada do?" Moira throws up a hand in disbelief.  "What can Mercy do?  What can I do, for that matter?"

"It's not ideal," Reyes agrees.  "But it's happening."

Moira closes her eyes.  "When?"

"Tomorrow.  We'll have to move before dawn."

—-

Angela finds her sometime around sunset, running around the yard like a madwoman.  It's not that Moira is incapable of something reminiscent of self-defense—everyone with half a brain has learned to be on guard since the uprising—but rather that she'd hoped she would never be called upon to use it in such a capacity.

Moira sprints, jumps, turns, flexes her wrists, allows herself to come apart and back together again.

"And here I heard you were concerned," Angela remarks.

Moira steadies herself against a tree, wipes the sweat from her brow.  "Perish the thought."

"I don't like this," says Angela quietly as she approaches.

Moira looks up.  "You think I do?"

Angela frowns subtly.  "I think you'll glean some satisfaction from it," she says, and there's the barest shadow of an accusation in her tone.  "Seeing your _projects_ at work."

"And you find fault with that," Moira guesses.

"I..." Angela lowers her gaze.  "I don't know."

Moira sets about detaching the tubes from her arms as she approaches.  "I don't claim to be a pillar of morality," she says.  "I know who signs my checks.  If Rey— _Reaper_ ," she corrects herself, not without considerable sarcasm, "says something must be done, it must be done.  I see no harm in finding some utility in the task at hand."

Angela looks up at her, eyes shining.  "I suppose you're right," she says slowly, skeptically.

They stand an arm's length apart in the yard a moment too long before Moira makes the decision to lead the way inside.  "And your patient?" she asks, more to fill the silence than because she cares.

"The Shimada family is well known for its prowess," Angela replies.  "Genji tells me he excelled in his training.  He is a master with a blade."

Moira scoffs.  "You believe such grandstanding?"

"Grandstanding," Angela echoes.  "You think he says that to impress me?  Why?"

Moira struggles not to lash out with a series of unhelpful responses, as the answer seems painfully obvious to her.  Instead, she breathes deeply while she puts her device to rest.  "A man of privilege brought low," says Moira slowly, but she can feel her irritation building despite her best efforts, "placed into the care of a beautiful doctor who affords him such _special attention—"_

A hand on her bad arm causes her to whirl about on her heel, towering over Angela, all her misdirected frustration suddenly hyperfocused.

Angela meets her gaze steadily.  To Moira's surprise, she inclines her head, and with the faintest ghost of a smile upon her lips, she says, "Beautiful?"

All the fire flees Moira in an instant.  She's left still looming, but without purpose.  "Are you so starved for praise?" she tries to snap, but the words have none of the bite she intends.

Angela moves in closer.  Too close.  Moira can _feel_ her, feel the life that radiates from her.  Devoid of her pointless rage, she's left empty and wanting, and Angela is _too close_.

Angela takes Moira's hands.  Moira swallows audibly.

Angela's attention is drawn to Moira's right hand.  She holds it up between them, runs her fingers over the scars.  Objectively, they are a dreadful sight to behold.  It's never occurred to Moira to be embarrassed by them before.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, almost a whisper.

Moira shakes her head, dumbstruck.

Angela watches Moira intently as she draws Moira's hand closer.  Her eyelids flutter closed and she presses her lips to one of Moira's knuckles.

Moira thinks she hears herself exhale.  She feels unreal, set apart from the physical world.

Angela doesn't look up.  She draws Moira's hand a little nearer and kisses the pulse point on her wrist.  Half-consciously, Moira curls her fingers about the curve of Angela's cheek.  She wonders how it must feel, scarred and rough against such flawless softness, empty and aching against such glowing vitality.

Moira brings her unmarred hand up to join the other, smoothes a stray lock of Angela's hair and threads her fingers through it.  Angela's eyes remain heavy-lidded, but she allows herself to be drawn in, arches her neck and takes in a shuddering breath, and Moira cannot help but to think that the wisest course of action would be to bid her good evening and retreat to safety.

But what has Moira ever cared for risks?

She leans in with painstaking slowness, hopes without cause that she might find the will to pull away, but what little resolve she possessed is utterly shattered when she feels Angela's free hand at her waist, fingers clutching at the fabric of her shirt.  She captures Angela's lips at last, relishes the muted exhalation the kiss elicits and the way Angela's grip on her wrist and her shirt tightens suddenly. 

It seems impossible.  Surely if Angela weren't frightened and upset about the task ahead of them, she would see reason.  Surely Moira ought to know this, and it ought to give her pause.

They break apart a moment, each gasping for air.  Moira opens her eyes, searching for something she cannot name.  Angela's eyelids flutter open dreamily in response, a question in response to a question.

Moira inhales, meaning to speak, but no words come.  Angela reaches up to run her fingers through Moira's hair, and wraps her arms about Moira's neck.  Angela pulls her down to kiss her again, and whatever protestation Moira might have tried to make dies before it has fully formed. 

Moira picks Angela up, both to ease the height difference between them and because she wants very much to feel Angela's legs wrapped about her waist, and she takes the opportunity afforded her by Angela's surprised inhalation to examine the curve of her jaw, the line of her neck, the artful sharpness of her collarbone.  She steadies Angela on the edge of her desk, and finds Angela's hands immediately at her tie and the buttons of her shirt.

It seems...it should be impossible.

Angela loops a hand through her loosened tie and pulls her in for a kiss, and Moira's mind goes blissfully silent.  She slips her hands beneath the hem of Angela's blouse, traces her fingers tentatively along the hem of her trousers, just barely daring to graze her skin. 

(Her fingertips bear the strange hypersensitivity that comes of clipping her nails after such a long time, and she privately congratulates herself for having taken the hint, if only in jest, and despite feeling, at the time, overwhelmingly stupid for doing so.)

To her surprise, Angela pulls her own blouse over her head and casts it aside.  Before Moira can fully appreciate this, Angela's hands are tugging at Moira's shirt, now hanging open, willing her closer.  Moira steadies herself with her scarred hand on the desk, and continues her tentative exploration with the other.  She curls her fingers about the curve of Angela's waist, traces the subtle dip of her spine, and at last, at Angela's insistence, ducks her head to examine the glory that is the subtle rise of Angela's breasts.

She brushes her nose against the soft skin of Angela's chest first, then turns her cheek as she furthers her descent, spurred onward not only by her own desire but by insistent hands upon her shoulders.  The hand at Angela's back finds the clasp of her bra, and though it is Moira who unhooks it, it is Angela who casts the garment readily to the floor.

Moira traces the newly exposed flesh with her fingertips in a kind of trance, stricken again by how unfathomable this moment seems.  She realizes vaguely that Angela is watching her intently, studiously, and meets her gaze in a silent question.

Angela's lips quirk upward.  "You have a very...methodical way of ravishing a person," she says breathlessly.

Moira falters, and averts her gaze, unsure of how to respond.

Angela moves to catch her eye once more, and in the process she takes hold of Moira's scarred hand and brings it up to her lips.  "It's not a bad thing," she amends, with that terrible sweetness about her.  Then she takes Moira's hand, a horrible sight to behold, and she presses it against her own breast, malformed scarring against such flawless softness, empty and aching against such glowing vitality.

It's too much.  Moira pulls away from her gentle grasp as though scalded, and for the first time in her life, she bows her head in shame.

"I've upset you."  Soft, perfect hands, reaching out into the space she's just left empty.  "I'm sorry.  It's just that you're...you're so interesting."

Moira allows Angela to catch her arms, but her eyes are trained firmly upon the floor.

Angela draws her nearer all the same.  "I want to..." she releases Moira's arms and instead slides her hands beneath Moira's shirt, untucking the rest of it as she goes. 

She pulls Moira against her, or perhaps she pulls herself against Moira, so warm, so soft, and Moira is lost yet again.  She cannot help but to wrap her arms tightly about Angela, relish the bare skin of her back and the softness of her hair as it falls free, simultaneously loathe and delight in the absurdity of such a circumstance, that this curious angel should look upon her with anything braver than trepidation, anything kinder than revulsion.

Moira is well and truly lost now, and there is no retrieving her.  She kisses Angela with unmitigated passion, grips her neck and her shoulders and her breasts and her waist each in turn, undoes the button on Angela's trousers and practically throws her back onto the desk, falls to her knees and presses desperate kisses along the flesh of Angela's inner thigh.

She brushes her lips against the wetness between Angela's legs, ill-concealed by the fabric of her underwear.  Angela's body contracts and she inhales sharply.  She pushes herself up off the desk to allow Moira to remove her underwear.  This time Moira does not have the wherewithal to hesitate.  She casts the garment aside with the others and buries her face between Angela's legs with something remarkably akin to reckless abandon.

Angela throws her head back and cries out.  When she grasps at both of Moira's hands, Moira doesn't flinch.

—-

Forced into close quarters, Moira's irritation with Angela's pet project resurfaces with a vengeance.  She's never had much tolerance for whining, and Shimada doesn't seem to have grasped the concept of keeping his internal monologue to himself.  Before they've reached their base of operations, she knows more about his family history than about her own.

Under different circumstances she'd have tuned it out.  But Angela indulges him, and this morning the sound of her voice cuts like a knife.

Angela slept a little, she's certain, but Moira couldn't manage it at all.  She isn't accustomed to sharing a bed, and though arms wrapped suddenly about her and a warm, healing presence against her back weren't precisely unpleasant, the overall effect was far too overwhelming to be conducive to slumber.

She doesn't feel the exhaustion yet.  She doesn't feel much of anything besides mounting fury.

Shimada is still fixated on his hands, far more cybernetic than human, with visible loathing.  Angela takes one and squeezes it, catches his eyes and smiles warmly.  Moira feels ill.  If, subconsciously, she cradles her own mangled right arm against her chest, then she writes it off as decidedly unrelated.

"All right, team," says Reyes, as he affixes a ridiculous mask to his face, "let's make this quick.  We get in, meet with my contact, exchange one package for another, and get out.  Simple."

He details the layout of the structure across the deserted road.  Unless something goes awry, he and Shimada will lead with Moira and Angela for support.  No one looks pleased, but they all nod their assent.

"Sombra online.  Do you read me?" says a woman's voice over their radio system.  They all give their assent.  "Gotcha.  On my signal wait for a count of ten, then you'll have about ten seconds to get through the side door, got it?"

"Understood," says Reyes.  He takes point and motions to the others to fall into formation.  Moira flexes her wrists and tries to swallow the creeping anxiety in her chest.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and very nearly attacks on instinct.  "Don't worry," says Angela, just shy of her ear.  "I'll be watching over you."

Moira is certain her vision blurs.

"And...countdown."

—-

"Shit.  Change of plans."

"We've been spotted," Reyes clarifies hurriedly.  "Just watch your backs and be ready."

"Aah!" Shimada cries, somewhere in the physical world.

Moira panics.  She closes her eyes and allows herself to come apart into nothingness.  She watches from the shadows as Angela flies across the darkened store room with feet barely skimming the ground and practically drags Shimada to her with the biotic healing stream her strange staff releases.  He falls hard into her arms, but she doesn't even falter.

Moira feels, rather than hears someone behind her, and she panics afresh.  She turns on her heel and flexes her right wrist violently.  A young woman materializes, sprinting backwards away from her, and fires a single dart into her arm.

Moira cringes.

"Sorry," says the stranger with a smirk.  "Friendly fire."  She tosses Moira a small brown parcel and comes apart into nothingness.  Moira can still feel her presence, but she can't track her movements, and then the feeling is gone, and she's left alone with an unmarked package and a poison dart at her elbow.

She ducks down behind some wooden crates, cradling both the package and her injured arm against her chest.  She remembers how these darts used to feel, cold and creeping and heavy.  This feels like...palpable nothingness, decidedly neutral compared with the mangled flesh it endeavours to target.

"Package received," Moira rasps over the radio, once she's regained her bearings.

"Roger.  Preparing to trade off.  Mercy, cover Moira."

"Understood," over the radio, and then suddenly Moira feels her, like she's just appeared over Moira's shoulder.  Moira stands.

"You're hurt." Angela reaches out.

Moira backs away instinctively.  "It's nothing."

"All clear," says the voice of the mysterious woman, whom Moira can now place as Sombra, over the radio.  "Sorry about the hitch."

"Trade-off completed," says Reyes shortly thereafter.  "Mercy, move out with Genji.  Moira, hang back and wait for me."

Moira turns away from Angela to press her mic button.  "Understood."

She sees Angela hesitate in her periphery, sees the way the barest beginnings of morning light catch on the winglike structure on her suit.

"Understood," says Shimada, instead, and Moira sees his shadow appear to lead Angela away from her.

—-

Moira spends the afternoon in fitful slumber.  Part of her hopes to sleep through the departure of her unwelcome lab guests, but she should only be so lucky.  Shimada has proven himself fully recovered, and has by extension proven Moira's work a success.  Overwatch will want to set about whatever schemes they have in store for him, and they'd be stupid not to realize they'll need Angela's help in motivating him to turn against his family so completely.  Reyes will no doubt report on Moira's new energy transference technology, and Overwatch will no doubt either ignore it or try to steal it.

Moira will be left to her own devices once more.  Not a day prior she'd have felt nothing short of immense relief.

Now...

There's a gentle knock at the door to her private quarters sometime around sunset.

"How is your arm?"

Moira frowns.  "The same as ever."

Angela reaches out, undeterred.  "Won't you let me look at it?"

"The mission has ended, _Mercy_ ," Moira snaps, perhaps a bit more caustically than she'd intended.  "You may cease playing the guardian angel."

Angela's brow furrows subtly, the only sign that Moira has hurt her feelings.  "I came as a friend, not an agent."

Moira backs away, far more wounded by her unfailing gentleness than anything else.  "Came to stare at a medical anomaly, more like."

Angela scoffs, but there's pain bleeding into her voice.  "You really believe that?"

"I believe," says Moira with a sneer, "that you're so caught up in helping the downtrodden that you're drawn to anyone you see as desperate for your assistance.  Let me be clear: I don't need your help."

Angela purses her lips and averts her eyes, inhales as though to speak, and then falls silent.  "I don't understand why you're upset," she says at last, little more than a whisper.

Moira scoffs and turns her back.  "Go talk to Shimada if you feel like playing nursemaid.  I expect you'll have plenty of time in the days to come."

"You're jealous!" Angela cries, an accusation and a revelation all at once.

Moira doesn't move.  "Don't be absurd."

"You are!" Angela tries grabbing Moira's arm, but just simply comes racing around her when she's denied.  "You're jealous of nothing!"

The fire in her eyes is comforting.  Moira is much more accustomed to people being angry with her than anything else.  She squares her shoulders and folds her arms.  "If it is nothing," she says coolly, "why are you so upset?"

Angela waves her arms in frustration.  "Because you—!  I—!"  She shakes her head, drops her arms, so easily defeated.  "I thought there was something between us," she says, suddenly quiet.  "I didn't want to leave, I..."

"Something between us," Moira echoes derisively, ignores the way her heart twists painfully.  Impossible.  Borne of intellectual curiosity and pity.  "I will not be pitied."

Angela looks up with wide, shining eyes.  She's silent for a moment that seems to drag on forever, but Moira is too set in her simmering outrage to move away.

"The trouble with you," Angela says slowly, "is that I think you already know everything I'd like to tell you.  You know you're brilliant, and you know you're underappreciated.  You know our bodies aren't all that define us..." she gestures to herself, clasps her hands and considers them.  "But perhaps yours does, more than most.  Perhaps..."

Angela opens her hands and reaches for Moira's bad arm.  Moira, dumbfounded, allows it.

"Perhaps it frightens you to be seen as you are.  Perhaps you'd rather be seen as the mad scientist than the woman who made sacrifices to save herself."

With an efficiency that shocks her, Angela produces from her pocket a common antidote for the kind of poison dart Sombra fired, pours it onto a cotton ball, and dabs it into the crook of Moira's elbow where the dart landed.

It hardly feels like anything, but Moira feels quite suddenly very near the verge of treacherous tears.

"You fashioned your energy transference equipment to work with what you noticed in your altered arm," she observes quietly.  "It...takes."

Moira nods silently, gaze affixed to Angela's hands while she works.

Angela tucks the bottle back into her pocket and takes Moira's right hand between both of hers.  She inhales deeply, and then her hands begin to glow faintly with biotic energy.  "What does this feel like?" she wonders.

Moira's fingers curl of their own volition and her stomach twists.  She closes her eyes against Angela's searching stare.  What does it feel like?  It feels like longing, like an offering to a void that aches for all it can no longer grasp.  It feels like desire, impossible, unmitigated—the kind that burns.

"Warm," she whispers at last.  She's vaguely aware of a wetness about her eyes.  Angela is kind enough not to comment.

—-

Moira wakes to fingertips tracing shapes across her back.  She fights the urge to return to sleep.  There's not enough time left for that.

"It's raining," Angela breathes against the skin of her shoulder.

Moira closes her eyes and listens.  "So it is."

"Maybe it will rain so hard we can't leave today."

Moira's laughter surprises her.  She turns over, and Angela wastes no time in threading fingers through her hair and kissing her lips.

Moira traces her own fingers along Angela's side.  Her nails are already starting to grow back.  Angela spent half the night sealing improbable promises with kisses pressed to every inch of her skin.  Moira feels heady and vague, set apart from the reality of what the morning will bring.  No one has ever even showered her work with such unmitigated praise, and her work is arguably far more worthy of such an act.

"What are you thinking about?" Angela asks her.

 _You.  Everything.  Nothing_.  "Work," Moira teases instead.

It earns her a little laugh and another kiss, so it must not have been the worst thing to say.

"Do you suppose I'll ever see you again?" Angela wonders.

Moira's heart twists.  She knows the answer.  Supposing they both survive long enough to meet again, these are the kinds of times that turn clever minds against one another.  More than likely if they ever do meet again it won't be under friendly circumstances.

"You don't," says Angela at last, softer than the rain against the window.

Moira frowns to herself.  "I've never thought much of my luck."

Angela draws her closer and tucks her head under Moira's chin with a soft sigh.  "Suppose I came to visit."

Moira lets out a huff of mirthless laughter.  "You might find yourself met with more resistance than you expect."

"From you?"

"From your employers."

Angela goes still for a moment, then, slowly, she resumes tracing patterns on Moira's back.  "Suppose I don't care," she whispers.

Moira's lips quirk upward into a smile she would have hidden if she thought Angela could see it.  "Well, that would be quite different," she says lightly.  "Unfortunately, I think you do care."

Too much.  For everything and everyone.  And that includes Moira.

—-

As they're packing up to depart, Shimada makes a snide comment along the lines of being relieved to be out of Moira's company.  Reyes folds his arms and raises his eyebrows, awaiting her reaction.  Before she has time to retort, Angela crosses the room, pulls Moira down by the tie and then the back of her head, and kisses her in front of both of them.

Shimada freezes.  Reyes chokes.

Once released, Moira struggles not to stagger.

"I don't know," says Angela with a cheeky smile.  "I think I'll quite miss Dr. O'Deorain's company."

Angela turns Shimada around and escorts him out by the shoulders.  Reyes claps Moira on the back and mutters, if she isn't mistaken, "you smooth motherfucker."

Moira maintains a facade of composure until she's certain they're gone.  Then she leans hard against the wall and smiles even as she feels a terrible wetness about her eyes.  She marvels at the curiosity of it, feeling so pleased and so melancholy all at once.

As the old saying goes, _what one hand gives, the other takes away_. 

Moira closes her eyes and concentrates on the sound of the rain outside until she hardly hears the car driving away.


End file.
